


a fool for sacrifice

by miraclemoon



Series: Stucky poetry [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Returns, Domestic Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Second Person, POV Steve Rogers, Poetry, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 21:47:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7774918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraclemoon/pseuds/miraclemoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m sorry.” </p>
<p>His voice is a mere whine against the languid silence. The walls in your apartment are crooked, the doorway is too small, and the windows are stretched so far up they’re practically bending into the ceiling. Nothing sits right, and Bucky looks like he’s suffocating, choking on his own shame. You can hear his throat closing around the apologies gasping for life, coughing them out as they tear through his teeth. </p>
<p>“You shouldn’t forgive me.”</p>
<p>He’d be disappointed to know that you already have. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>A collection of scenes and poems in which Bucky visits Steve after hiding out in Bucharest. Takes place a year after TWS, pre-CACW. </p>
<p>A/N: scenes are written in second person narrative, poems in first. All in Steve’s POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a fool for sacrifice

“Your name is Steve.”

The silence speaks after 70 grueling years of absence, groaning and wailing into the night as it so often has perfected. It stands with the weight of hollow memories begging to be patched together with the gentleness it has starved so long without.

It stands with a purpose.

It seeks answers.

“Your mother’s name was Sarah. You used to wear newspapers in your shoes.”

It takes the form of an unshaven man, scent heavy with regret and apology, desperate to stitch back together all the wounds and injuries it has created under its wake, yet unable to scrub the scent of death and blood from its being. It has learned to cope with the heaviness of lost souls resting on its shoulders. It has learned to exist with this awful reminder.

“Bucky?”

You watch the glint of metal pierce through the haze of darkness, sharp and agonizingly acute. It tears through you, sinks into your chest, finds home behind the marrow of your bones and the oxygen in your veins.

The silence does not answer. It does not wane. It does not bury itself into the shadows, for it _is_ the shadows, extending its arms across the length of your living room and into your space, curling around your ankle; beckoning you forward.

“Your name is Steve.”

It invades you and you welcome it, invite it with open arms and pray that it will stay long enough for you to drown in its presence.

“I _know_ you.”

 

\---

 

When you turn on the lights, you watch the darkness scatter, seeking refuge behind furniture and cracks in the walls the light cannot reach through.

The man standing there does not fade, does not cease to exist under the beam of light, but his shoulders are curled into his body - despising the vulnerability that comes with feeling exposed.

A tender ache surges through your chest like vines rippling to seek purchase against the stability of your bones. It hurts to breathe, move, _exist_ against the weight of the truth that creeps over this lonely horizon.

You step forward.

“Bucky.” you swallow down the whimper that begs to crawl up your throat, blink away the tears that are already blurring your vision.

Your shield is across the room from you, but you don’t look at it, don’t bother to acknowledge its presence.

Nothing matters but the ghost staring right back at you.

 

\----

 

i.

 

“I’m sorry.”

His voice is a mere whine against the languid silence. The walls in your apartment are crooked, the doorway is too small, and the windows are stretched so far up they’re practically bending into the ceiling. Nothing sits right, and Bucky looks like he’s suffocating, choking on his own shame. You can hear his throat closing around the apologies gasping for life, coughing them out as they tear through his teeth.

The distance between you both stretches for miles, and your living room has never felt so big, so empty, so…wrong. Because Bucky is here, he’s here, and nothing could make you more relieved than that, but he’s already measuring the distance up to the window and you’re terrified that it’ll only take one wrong word for him to return into hiding, into being nothing more than a memory you cradle in your arms at night. 

He’s here and you’re selfish, so selfish, but isn’t that a relief?

At least one thing hasn’t changed since you were kids.

“I shouldn’t be here.” he breathes, and you can see the conflict in his eyes, in the way new wrinkles splinter over his face every time his expression twists into thought. You’re mesmerized by the rise and fall of his chest, reminded that beneath the cotton of his henley, under his skin and into the cavity of his chest, rests the heartbeat that threatens to collapse your walls. His heart may not be made of gold but you can hear it work like an engine that just won’t quit, roaring and clattering until a cloud of smoke rises and stretches across your ceiling. The soldier who stands before you is a man that refuses to lose against those who have done him wrong for much too long, and the pride that fills you, as well as the grief that follows, is blinding.

The emptiness that once obscured his eyes is now flooded with a broken tenderness he’s ashamed to show, and you watch the twitch of his fingers, the tremble of his shoulders.

“Stevie…”

The reverence in his tone almost sounds like a prayer, and you feel yourself wanting to fall to your knees, to catch up on all of the rosaries and Our Father’s you stopped reciting after Sarah’s death.

“I -” he inhales sharply, trying to will the words out, to make his journey to your little apartment worth all of the effort it took to get here, “I didn’t want you to think it was by choice. It wasn’t, Steve, honest to God, never was.”

Bucky’s never been the religious type, even before the war, and you can’t help but wonder if his faith in God even exists after all He forced this golden man to suffer. To put his faith in someone who only let him down, Steve can’t help but chew on his inner cheek.

You simply nod, trying not to dwell on something that tightens your chest so painfully.

“Course not, Buck.” you answer, watching the furrow of his brows intensify through that reassurance. He almost looks relieved. Almost.

Bucky’s standing in front of you and you can watch the carnage starting to unfold, visceral and grim. You’re watching this man be eaten alive by all of the guilt and rage that has been left to fester over the years, acting as just another audience member waiting until this cast of one concludes his final act.

Scabs and open wounds liter against the length of his torso, and you watch the blood ooze, the tear tracks he’s rubbed away time and time against permanently staining at his cheeks.

That truth is right in front of you, and your chest aches at the realization, at the horrible, terrible truth that is looking you right in the eye.

Bucky looks like he’s wearing all of the clothes he owns on his back. His hair is unwashed, stringy and curtaining his face, and his backpack is full, as if his entire life is shoved into its pockets and seams.

He deserved so much more than this.

“Fuck, Stevie, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking -”

“It’s alright, Buck.”

You say that in earnest, but the brunet simply shakes his head, unconvinced.

“Jesus, no, it’s _not._ ” his shoulders are trembling, the tremors so intense you can feel the ground beneath you quake at his own seething rage. At any moment the floor beneath you both is going to cave in, deplete into nothing but debris and splintered concrete, and you’re already measuring how long it would take to close the distance and reach him, to throw yourself and catch him before you plummet into the darkness; keep him safe against your chest and cushion his landing.

Protect him like you’ve constantly failed to do.

“It’s not alright,” he continues, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, a nervous tick he kept after all these years. “I shot at you.”

“I broke your arm.”

“I tried to _kill_ you.”

“And I was going to let you.”

The nonchalance in your voice should be unnerving, but it’s not. If there’s anything in this wretched room that feels right, it was in this single admittance. A chuckle bubbles up your throat and Bucky’s staring daggers, eyes so menacing that you can hear the wallpaper peeling under his gaze. That only makes you smile wider.

“It’s not funny,” you can smell the smoke in his breath, feel the fire burning in his chest. “It’s not fucking funny, Rogers. God, for _once_ in your life could you just take your life seriously?”

You can hear the Brooklyn in his voice, the admonishment heavy in his tone as he stares at you, eyes never leaving your own even with the guilt that cripples his gaze.

In any other context, you’d be certain his scolding would make you blush.

“Fuck, it’s not even enough to say sorry, if I went through with it -”

“You didn’t.”

“But if I did -”

“You remembered me. You saved my life, Buck, you didn’t let me drown.”

“But if I put a bullet through your skull like I was _supposed_ to, if I followed my orders -”

“But you _didn’t_ , Bucky.” you’re the first one to move, taking the first step necessary to begin closing this distance that has stretched and separated you both for years. The first step is always the hardest, and you can watch Bucky’s gaze collapse in agony, overwhelmed by your sudden decision. Unprepared for it. His foot moves by a fraction to reciprocate the act, but he remains grounded in his current position. He’s too scared to move. Too terrified to promise anything he can’t deliver.

“You didn’t.”

There is finality in your tone, an end to this rabbit hole of hypotheticals that accomplish nothing but add weight to the guilt that is suffocating your partner. You watch the fog roll out of his steel eyes, the heavy clouds of culpability slowly fading, revealing the stark reality before him that he has had difficulty acknowledging until this very moment.

And that reality is that you’re alive, you’re safe and in one piece, even if bandages lace the length up your forearm and your side is still tender from a bullet wound you returned home with after your last mission.

Bucky can see the outline of the bandages from underneath your shirt, and you can tell he wants to ask, wants to know how you got it, if it still hurts.

But he’s a beautiful, broken record, and even his curiosity and concern isn’t enough to stop himself from letting apology after apology fall off of his tongue, filling the silence until it’s heavy and full with his remorse.

“I…” his voice wavers, vulnerability etched deep into each sound and groan that rises up his throat. All the unspoken words that once sat heavy on his tongue now slip from the gaps of his teeth, aching and bleeding into your carpet, leaving stains so thick they’ll never fade, never wear out, simply leave permanent remnants of all of the muted truths that burned too hard to ever be revealed. Bucky’s hurting. He’s hurting. He’s hurting and you’re watching him try to stay together, to not crumple over into the pit of despair that’s calling his name, to not cling and search for the broken pieces of his old self in hopes that it’ll put an end to this madness.

He’s hurting because he wants to return to the soldier who held a gun to keep his country safe, not further dismantle it. He wants to return to sunny mornings where life was a blessing meant to treasure, not condemn. He wants to return to the man who used to smile easily and confronted all of his problems head on, who got drunk off cheap beer and liked pretty dames and let his laughs bellow through the streets of Brooklyn and was actually _happy_.

He wants to return to the Sergeant who had a home outside of the battlefield, who wasn’t born for war, not like the Asset was.

But that man’s dead. Long dead. He was dead the very second cold hands drug him away through the heavy snow of the Alpine Mountains and trapped him behind the steel grip of Hydra’s quarters.

There he lay in his unmarked grave.

No ceremony.

No flowers.

No visitors.

James Buchanan Barnes was a man born of love, but the asset was created through greed, a thirst for power that could never be sated.

“I just -” Bucky inhales sharply, like his lungs are starving and begging for more, but the air is too thick to keep him from suffocating. You can see the panic in his eyes. The desperation in his stance. Every breath he takes is a hurricane through your living room, heavy and full and so powerful that you marvel over the strength he holds. Strength he never asked for. Strength that came from a drafty lab and an old syringe.

Bucky’s eyes are darting across your apartment and you can listen to his blood screech, fearful and desperate and scared, he’s so _scared_.

He wants to run away. Run back to God knows where he’s been hiding since the helicarrier incident, run from the nightmares and the guilt and the blood under his fingernails he can’t scrub out. He wants to run away from you and everything you remind him of, of simpler times when sunlight tasted like honey and nights never stretched out into years, but that’s also exactly why he wants to _stay_. To ignore the door and instead run into the safety of your arms, the caress of your breath, the glow of your skin. Part of him wants to forget your touch and your love and your loyalty because these aren’t the Assets memories, these are the memories of the deceased Bucky Barnes, the very ghost who yelled at him to find you, to step out from the shadows of Europe and actually stay on your doorstep long enough to be discovered.

He wants to run away, but he wants to stay.

He wants to live, but he’s been a ghost since 1943.

He wants to be loved, but are monsters deserving of it?

He wants to do this all at once and he looks so torn, so confused, so undeserving of **everything** his heart yearns for that at any moment, you’re certain he’s going to fall apart under the weight of his own disgrace, splinter into the floorboards of your apartment, fade away into the evening’s last gasp. 

You ground your feet deeper into the floor, shoulders squared, jaw tightened.

Anchoring yourself.

You’re ready.

Ready to pull him back up when he sinks too deep into the haze of regret, lost in the carnage of his own self-disgust.

You’re ready to reach for his hand and actually grab it this time, to hold him. Hold him. Hold him and press kisses against his forehead like he deserves, protect him until this storm passes. _If_ this storm passes. Whether it does or doesn’t, that changes nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“You shouldn’t forgive me.” his voice breaks against the silence, and you smile.

You already have.

 

\---

 

It’s a wonder that you’re the one apologizing

When I was the one who let you fall in the first place.

Bullet wounds are minor against the injustice

Of letting you go down in history without the honor of a proper burial,

And yet here you are

A ghost story finally spilling your ink into my notebook,

Taking tangible form.

I’ve dreamed of this so many times before

That I’m convinced you’re no more

Than a mere projection I anticipate will flicker the moment I step too close,

An old memory that lost the battle against time,

A flame which wanes against the gentlest gust of air.

When I look at you I expect to see

The dead man everyone says you are.

_“he’s gone.”_

Their voices ring like church bells crying into the heavens,

Reminding me of that fact as if it should offer me solace,

Unknowing that I try desperately to ignore the way that horrible truth

Scorches my veins and melts my bones

_“he’s not the kind of person you save.”_

But you are

You are and I can’t help but count the creases on your face that didn’t used to be there

The calluses on your fingers that have thickened into stone

The way your voice once felt like velvet

And pressed into my skin like cotton

But now tears the same way nails drag against silk.

A shadow clings to you like a noose

And I’m terrified that the next time I look over

You would have already kicked the chair out from under your feet.

 

* * *

 

ii.

 

“How long have you been in DC for?”

“Couple days.”

He’s sitting at your kitchen table, sipping his coffee. You watch his fork sink into the eggs you fried up for him a few moments ago, and you try not to stare when he brings it to his chapped lips. You watch the way the steam from his mug rises and tickles at his face, traveling up the expanse of his jawline and kissing tenderly at his cupids bow. You’re almost jealous.

“Where have you been staying?”

He doesn’t answer, and you don’t press.

“I have a spare room,” you offer, nudging your head in its direction. “You can stay here if you’d like.”

You try to hide the desperation in your tone, but your blood is screaming to keep him here, to convince him not to leave, to stay, and you’re certain Bucky can hear it, hear the crying in your veins. It’s pathetic, but that’s nothing new, you’ve always maintained a certain degree of shamelessness with him.

He stops eating for a moment, and you try not to let the hope shine through your eyes, fearful that it’ll only drive him away.

“Shouldn’t.”

His voice is rough as sandpaper, and you nod. You understand, you tell yourself.

You don’t.

 

\-----

 

When night rolls over, Bucky stands before you on the sofa, hair wet and dripping onto the towel that rests on his shoulders. His previous musk of sweat and dirt has been replaced by soap and shampoo, and you hate the way that settles in your chest, seeing him standing there, _smelling_ like you.

“Just tonight.” he says, and the notepad paper under your thumb crinkles. You nod dumbly.

 

\----

 

You don’t sleep that night. You hardly move. You’re concentrating on every creak of your apartment, every gust of wind, every single little sound that would require you to mobilize. You hear a conversation amongst neighbors from two floors down, the screech of a tea kettle from across the hall, the way car horns howl in the street below you, yet nothing from Bucky’s room, nothing, but you know better than to be comforted by silence.

Bucky could leave at any moment, and you want to be ready before he even makes it through the door, for some last stitch effort to reason with him, that you can help if he’ll just offer you the chance. And if he declines, you’ll follow him with no more than the clothes on your back, never bothering to even look back at your lonely apartment and its peeling paint.

Regardless of what happens, you’re not letting him get away.

Not again.

 

\----

 

At 5am, you hear him leave his bedroom, and you’re on your feet so fast that your vision blurs out for a moment.

In your fit of desperation, you don’t even register that his footprints are anything but subtle, that he let the door creak open, that he _sighs_ when he stretches his arm and it cracks the way he wanted it to. All your mind registers is that Bucky’s moving, he’s _leaving_ , and you can feel your veins fill with anguish.

By the time you’re in the living room, Bucky has crossed into the kitchen and has made his way towards the coffee maker.

The power button gleams through the haze of darkness, and you hear the machine hum to life.

The silence is interrupted by the drumming of your blood against your ear, loud and deafening and so damn _distracting_ that you’re certain Bucky can hear it too.

“Hi,” the brunet says simply, eyes alert and staring at you, clearly reading your movements just as closely as you’re reading his.

Your gaze trails down the length of his body.

He’s still in the pajamas you gave him.

His backpack isn’t over his shoulder.

His shoes are still by the doorway.

It takes a moment for all of that to sink in before your shoulders relax, and a tired smile stretches over your face. _What a relief,_ you gasp, unable to stop the trembling of your fingers. The adrenaline that previously surged through your system gradually fades, and you exhale the breath you’ve been holding in. 

“Hi,” you say back, “Mornin’ Buck.”

 

\-------

 

He doesn’t leave the following night.

Or the night after that.

 

* * *

 

 iii.

 

The first time you touch his new arm, Bucky looks like he’s holding the air in his lungs captive.

He watches the way you press your warm fingerprints against him, letting your heat melt into the cold metal as you leave behind remnants of your touch. Bucky eyes you intensely as you tap your blunt fingernail over one of the plates, listening to the way it _clinks_ in response.

He frowns.

He never touches you with that arm. His contact with you is limited as it is, but any dish he hands to you, any mug he pours your coffee into, is with the hand still made of flesh and blood, bone and skin - not metal, _never_ metal.

He doesn’t understand why you ask to touch it, why you _want_ to, but he trusts your reasoning, trusts _you_. He never says it, but he doesn’t have to, it’s all too apparent in the fact that he lets you stand so close to him, that he’s still here in your little apartment, even with all of the risk that comes when you’re considered a public enemy and hiding out in the heart of DC.

His gaze never separates from your hand, which slowly inches to the juncture of your shoulder, seeking to touch the patch of skin which scars and separates into metal.

Bucky flinches before your fingertips even touch his skin, and you retract your hand away, terrified of pushing his limits.

“Sorry -” you gasp, and you’re already stepping back, giving him space.

Bucky shakes for a moment, energy trailing up the length of his spine as he exhales deeply, as if in resolution.

It’s silent for a moment before he reaches over and grasps at your wrist, resolved to move it back into its original position and let it settle against the meat of his shoulder.

You almost gasp at the heat that radiates from him, burning your fingertips like a furnace and yet glowing with the gentleness of a single candle.

Even when his hand slowly releases its grip, your gaze searches through his stormy eyes, seeking permission.

_It is okay?_ your eyes gasp, pleading and desperate and terrified of ruining this fragile moment.

His response to your hesitation is to step forward and close the distance, pressing himself firmly against the palm of your hand.

The gesture does wild things to you, and you forget to breath for a moment, forget about the cold tiles against your feet, the way fresh coffee lingers in the air. Nothing exists except for the way his flesh scorches at your fingerprints, and you can’t help but press firmly against him, admiring the way he refuses to step away.

Bucky’s gaze is tight with concentration, silencing every thought and every voice that’s telling him to _run_ , _you’re not safe_ , _get out while you still can_. 

Except he can’t.

He is.

He won’t.

There is no greater security than standing under the light of his sun, and the soldier finds it necessary to do his part to ensure that the distance between you both crumbles under the weight of your unity. So he will let himself be vulnerable, let you into his space, let the voices rage and cry that he is making a mistake, and if they ever end up right, he will never so much as regret this beautiful decision to enter back into your life.

You gently run your fingers against the scarred flesh of his shoulder, and when you slowly dance over the warmth of his skin, fingers now tracing against cold metal his receptors can no longer register, a low sound resonates deep from Bucky’s throat.

You pause, eyes snapping to reach his own.

The soldier is just as baffled as you are, exchanging a confused expression.

He almost sounded....disappointed? Losing the warmth of your touch, the tenderness of your curiosity against his skin. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The stark concentration of his face now melts into a bashfulness the soldier is not familiar with, and you smile.

Slowly, ever so _slowly_ , you raise your other hand and bring it to rest against his flesh and blood arm, idly tracing circles against his bicep. Your movements are featherlight, reading his body language for any indications that this was a mistake, that the sensory overload of having you so close and _touching_ him will undo all of the progress you both have already made.

The soldier does not step away like you expect. He does not re-establish distance.

Instead, as your hand carefully caresses at his shoulder, fingers gingerly finding purchase against the crook of his neck, you listen to him _sigh_ , a breathy little gasp that makes your lips itch and your spine erupt into flames.

Bucky leans into the contact, and you can feel him relax.

The furrow in his brow is gone, the tightness of his jaw dissipates, and he _almost_ closes his eyes, if not to continue watching the way you look at him in utter adoration and respect.

You leave your hand gently against the crook of his neck, grounding him as the other continues to explore the plates and joints of his artificial arm.

Your fingertips graze against the red star painted against his shoulder, the ink blotched and smeared - looking as if he had tried to scrub and scrub and _scrub_ the damn symbol of his imprisonment away, only for it to stare right back at him in mockery, a permanent reminder of his solitude in a world that sees him as nothing but a criminal, when really, he was just another victim to Hydra’s tyranny.

Bucky doesn’t feel the way your fingers brush against it, but his body repels against the contact. He knows you see it, knows you’re staring right at it, and his body flinches as if he’s just been burned, hating the way such an ugly symbol finds refuge on his body. 

He hates it.

He _hates_ it.

There’s gasoline in his veins and fire in his lungs, wars that just won’t end raging through his head and shrapnel trapped under his skin.

There’s a monster beckoning to tear through the fabrication of his humanity, and the man that was Bucky Barnes is terrified of finally losing the battle against his demons.

He never chose this.

Never chose to be the Winter Soldier.

_Never_ wanted it.

“Bucky -” he’s shaking, the storm in his chest tearing him apart before he even had the chance to find shelter. He staggers backwards, pulling you back with him as his hand grips tightly at your shirt.

You listen to his metal fingers tighten and release their grip against you, desperate to find purchase but terrified of dragging you back into this nightmare with him. Snow is packing on his shoulders. Ice presses against his feet. The wind howls and burns at his cheeks and he doesn’t want to go back.

“It’s okay, Buck,” you whisper, listening to the racing of his heart as your thumb caresses against his racing pulse. Your hand snakes up until it cups against his stubbled cheek, admiring the way his breath catches in his throat from the contact.

“I got you.” 

 

\---

 

Baby let me press kisses against your throat

To rekindle the fire in your pulse

And if you burn, I’ll burn too.

Let me hold your hand while we blaze into the sky,

Molten and unyielding,

A testament to our raging power.

When the ash plumes over

And the earth gives under our weight,

When the soil scatters into the wind

And the stars mourn over our virtue,

We’ll make a home of this crater we’ve built

And kiss until our anguish tempers.

 

\---

 

You wake up to the sound of retching in the bathroom.

Bucky’s gripping the rim of the toilet so hard you’re sure it’ll snap underneath his strength, and when you step inside, kneeling quietly to his right and bringing a hand over to hold back his hair, you listen to him groan.

“‘m right here.” you speak softly, voice rough with sleep. Your other hand gingerly rubs circles against his sweat stained back, and his body convulses again.

“It’s okay, Buck, I’m here.”

 

\---

 

When you opened your eyes

You woke up on a bed of thorns

Which pressed poison into your veins

Filling you with loyalty

Towards a cause you never believed in.

 

When I woke up

My bed sprung back at the lightest press,

Cushioned and plush

Unfit for the body of a soldier

Better suited for a grave.

 

You suffered too much

And I didn’t enough,

Oh darling, what I’d give

To have taken your place.

 

* * *

 

iv.

 

Bucky is sitting at the corner of his bed.

You stand at the doorway of the guest room, watching him stare off into the white paint of the wall adjacent to you, as if it’ll offer him answers, offer him comfort. Something to help distract him from the static fraying in his head.

“How are you doing?”

He doesn’t blink when he hears your voice. Doesn’t turn to face you.

“Fine.”

You chew on your bottom lip.

“Do you need anything?”

The moment before he answers stretches for miles.

“No.”

You nod.

“Do you want to be alone?”

You watch his eyebrows furrow at the question. His toes curl against the hardwood.

“I don’t know.”

You nod again, for lack of a better response to offer him.

“Is it alright if I sit by the doorway?”

More silence. This conversation has stretched for 30 minutes already, but you don’t care, you don’t. All you care about is how you can help him, how you can help Bucky.

You watch his lips fall open, and wait for the sound that follows.

“Sure.”

You smile. You grab at the sketchbook that rested untouched on the coffee table in the living room, pick a few sharpened pencils, and seat yourself at the doorway.

 

\---

 

An hour later, Bucky moves from the corner of the bed and sits on the floor.

 

\---

 

Two hours later and he’s facing you.

 

\---

 

By midnight, he’s taken seat beside you, with his head cradled against your shoulder. You’ve long since stopped sketching. Now you’re just listening to his breathing.

 

\---

 

You’re back and I’m desperate

To put band aids over every gaping wound

That just won't heal.

Darling, the way you bleed into my carpet

And cry prayers to nameless gods

Is absolutely sinful,

How could you ever expect me to just stand here

While you come undone before my very eyes?

Let me sit in between the space of your lips

And breathe new life into your lungs,

Stop holding your breath

And let me in

Let me help

Let me remind you that your existence is a blessing

And not something to curse in the middle of the night,

Let me sprinkle kisses upon your skin

When it doesn’t quite fit right,

Let me soothe your nightmares away

When they grow teeth and paint claw marks across your back.

If you could love me when I was mere dust

Let me love you when you are a star gasping to preserve your light

Because the greatest honor I received wasn’t a medal or a bronze statue,

It was in reminding you that you were something worth shining for.

 

* * *

 

v.

 

“Did we used to do this?”

“Sometimes.” you shrug, “Most of the times you were still at the docks at this hour.”

Bucky doesn’t nod, doesn’t react. Simply lets the information sink, searching his thoughts for any relevant memories this nostalgia stems back from.

He finds none.

“We can go inside if you want.”

Bucky continues staring off into the horizon for a moment longer before shaking his head in response.

“No,” he answers, finality in his tone, “This is nice.”

 

\---

 

Reds and oranges splatter against the blue of your skin

Colors so full they beckon to spill out from their casing.

I’ve spent years watching sunsets blossom over horizons

And grace each patron with golden rays,

And you’ve watched them dissipate and fade into rusted grays,

Warmth foreign and visceral.

I know you’ve grown accustomed to the bite of cold steel

And cracked concrete under your skin,

But baby just breathe, I’m here with you.

I won’t let you fall

Not this time.

Let me press my fingerprints against your jaw

And dust kisses against each cheek,

I promise you milk and honey

To wash down all of the tears you’ve been forced to swallow

I promise you shelter against raging waves

Which seek to drag your lovely bones out to sea

I promise to whisper you words of love

In the dead of the night

When the soil screams loudest for all the blood you have spilled,

And I promise you’ll never have to wake up

To the sight of crooked ceilings again

If you’ll just stay.

Just stay.

Please, God, just stay.

 

* * *

 

vi.

 

“Bucky?”

You rub the sleep out of your eyes, voice thick with exhaustion. A dark silhouette towers over you, and you tuck your elbows into the mattress, propping yourself up.

You hadn’t heard him enter, never heard the creak of the floorboards under his weight, and you can’t help but wonder how long he’s been standing there.

You listen to him clear his throat, listen to the clink of metal recalibrating as his fingers curl into a fist.

He’s nervous.

Somehow that thought makes you smile.

Time passes before he finally speaks, and you’re not counting the seconds, never...but the strands of hair that curtain his face? Or each breath that fills his lungs and comes out smelling like honey?

Yes. Even in the darkness, you’re certainly counting all of that, everything about him. Each detail about Bucky is too precious to overlook, and when he finally speaks, voice gravely and deep and so uncertain, you melt into the sensation, losing your grip on reality for a moment.

“Can I -” he cuts himself off, and you watch him chew on the words, trying to swallow them down before they tear through his teeth.

Bucky looks too hesitant to move, trapped in his own uncertainty.

So you do first.

You tear the blanket off your body and move it from the edge of the bed, scooting your body back until your back beckons to press against the wall.

“Wanna climb in?”

The soldier does not move. The soldier simply stares, motionless.

“Left.”

You’re sitting up now, and your eyebrow perks up. You wonder if Bucky can see the gesture through the darkness, notice your confusion.

You watch the way the shadows play against his body, accentuating the way his jaw tightens. He’s grappling to find the words.

“Used to sleep on the left side. You used to roll off the bed sometimes, even hit your head on the nightstand.”

Suddenly the air is thick and heavy in your room, and you can feel your throat beginning to tighten.

“You remembered that?” the question is hardly louder than a whisper, disbelief heavy in your tone. You remember restless nights where fevers sent you into delusional states, falling right off the edge of the bed night after night until Bucky began sleeping on the other side, blocking you from falling with his sturdy body. Even when the fevers ended and you slept peacefully in place, the habit had already been established, and you gladly found refuge against the protection of Bucky’s sleeping form.

The memory ignites old flames in your chest, and you can tell it has done the same to the man before you.

The soldier simply shrugs at your question, eyeing the empty spot of the bed you left open for him.

“Can I?” he gasps, as if unable to believe the invitation that has just been extended to him.

“Yeah,” you smile, lowering yourself back down until your face buries into the pillow, hand extended to smooth down and pat at the empty spot beside you, “Go ahead.”

There is thunder in your pulse and a fire raging in your chest, and all of that energy and static in your brain roars intensely into one blinding moment, only to slowly drone out into the silence the moment Bucky actually steps forward, tucking himself under your blanket, letting his tired head rest against your pillow.

The mattress shifts from his weight, and you can feel your heart in your throat, ready to jump right into his palm and nestle into the warmth of his grip, where it belongs.

Bucky rests so close to the edge that you’re certain he’d fall off if he ever drifted to sleep, and you smile, lips curled mockingly.

“Comfortable?”

Bucky scoffs, refusing to admit his discomfort but too hesitant to move closer to you.

“Shut up.” he smirks, and you sigh from the sight of his gentle expression, unable to hide the way this moment feels like warm honey against your tongue.

You move your arm in between the space of your bodies. You don’t reach for Bucky, don’t try to pull him closer. Instead, you simply leave your hand there in invitation, hoping he’ll accept it, but unbothered if he chooses not to.

You watch Bucky’s gaze trail up the expanse of your body, through the curves of your arm, resting on your rough hand mere inches from his body, counting the scars that litter your knuckles, the way callouses have developed after long years of fighting.

His hand slowly traces against the soft underside of your forearm, fingertips following the route of your long blue vein. When he trails back down, he firmly presses against your elbow and nudges your arm closer to his face, earning a gasp from your lips.

You watch the way he smirks at the elicited response. Smug bastard, from all he can’t remember, he hasn’t forgotten just how damn ticklish you are.

You weren’t expecting to have him in your bedroom tonight, weren’t expecting to share your bed with him. Hell, you weren’t even certain if you’d ever see this ghost of a man ever again, and yet here is he, finding refuge in your home and slowly taking the steps necessary to recovery. All of this is a goddamn shock to you.

But this? What this beautiful, broken man does next?

Never would you have _ever_ expected it.

Your open palm is mere inches from his face, and your fingers twitch every time his breath caresses your flesh, sending goosebumps that litter up the length of your spine.

Everything stills for a moment when you watch him slowly lean forward, unable to stop the gasp that ripples up your throat. Fuck, you weren’t expecting this, weren’t _prepared_. His chapped lips gently brush against the ticklish underside of your palm, experimental and drinking in every response of yours that might tell him to stop.

He finds none, and you feel his lips curl against your palm when he listens to the sweet sounds you make.

You sigh at the contact, unable to hide the pleasure that tickles at your nerves and resonates through your silent apartment.

God, you’re so weak for this man, so goddamn _weak_ , and you’ll gladly put that on your headstone, let the entire world know that no one could ever set your body aflame through the most chaste, tenderest kiss imaginable then Bucky fucking Barnes.

Even after your bones turn to dust, even after the nightmares fray and you are no more than a mere footnote in earth’s history, you hope they will never forget the person responsible for keeping you this strong in the first place.

His steel eyes flicker up to meet your own, his body shifting forward to properly continue peppering kisses against your scalding skin. His flesh and blood hand gently cups against the back of your hand, fingers intertwining with your open as he gently pulls your fingers back, revealing more of your sensitive palm so he can begin working against the heel of your hand, the spaces in between your fingers. With each kiss that burns at your skin you can feel his stubble scratch and press against you, rubbing you raw and stripping you naked.

Your heart is racing, and you feel so damn embarrassed when a _moan_ slips past your lips. Your spare hand immediately shifts to cover at your mouth, trying to force the sound back in, but it’s too late, too damn late, the asshole already heard it and it adds fuel to ever kiss he’s giving you. Your eyes narrow in a playful glare, as if _insulted_ by the response he made you give. The soldier sees it through the darkness, eyebrow perked. 

“What?” he quips, and you’re so overwhelmed with weakness and disbelief and joys you’ve never known in this lonely future that you simply laugh, a shy little sound that drones out into another surprised moan when his tongue slowly traces against a prominent line on your palm.

“Nothin’, jerk.”

 

\---

 

“Steve?”

You stir awake. You feel a calloused hand cup at the base of your skull, blunt fingernails scratching lightly against your scalp. You moan shamelessly from the contact, nuzzling into the man beside you, seeking the heat and comfort that Bucky so effortlessly radiates. You hadn’t realized how starved you were for contact until this very moment, where moving away and reestablishing the distance between you both suddenly feels like an impossible task.

Light has yet to filter in through your windows, and you wonder if you can milk this moment for just a few more seconds, a few more minutes...

Bucky’s breath is flush against your ear, and you can feel in stark detail each exhale, hot and heavy and so _delicious_ that your body melts from the contact, desperate for anything and everything this man has to offer you.

Bucky’s metal arm is tucked underneath you, the hand pressed firmly against your back to keep you close against his chest. You don’t remember when you two shifted into this position, but you’re too calm to care, too relaxed. Nothing in this moment matters but the sound of Bucky calling your name, his breath against your skin, his heart racing against your heart. You both exist and breath and live in this moment albeit all of you have been forced to conquer, and a calm you have not known since before the war sweeps against your shoulders.

You groan, indicating your consciousness.

The brunet continues idly running his fingertips against your body, fingers drawing invisible circles against your shoulder as they tickle their way down the length of your jawline, pausing to stop on your chin. His thumb gently brushes against the line of your bottom lip, and the contact is so featherlight and tender that you _sigh_ into it, opening your lips at the gesture.

You don’t know why you did, but you open your eyes for the first time that morning, feeling steel eyes bear into your own.

You watch the way Bucky’s gaze falters on your lips, entranced. Your tongue pokes out and it swipes over your lower lip, gently brushing against the calloused pad of his thumb that continues to rest idly against you. You smile at the way he suddenly exhales, harsh and yearning from that simple gesture.

His nails continue scratching at your scalp, and your eyes slowly close in a sleepy blink, almost overwhelmed by how _good_ you feel.

“We were lovers.” you hear Bucky whisper, his voice gentle and soothing and sweet like hot syrup in the way it rolls down your skin. You’re melting, and you slowly nod, eyes still closed.

You can feel the way Bucky’s chest rises and falls rapidly at that reassurance, as if the breath that he has kept hostage for all of these years from wondering and thinking can finally be released. When you reopen your eyes, the knot in your stomach tightens, registering the pained expression that now envelops your partner’s face.

“Bucky?” you whisper, sliding a hand up to rest against his cheek, suddenly feeling panicked. “What is it?”

His body quakes, the grip he has against you tightening and pulling you in closer so he can hide his face in the crook of your neck. For a man who holds so much power, you are relieved that he will allow himself to let down all of that armor and be vulnerable.

“I remember something,” he says after a long moment, the words coming out choked and terrified. You hold him tight against you, hands snaking to lace through his hair. “Something important. But I can’t remember how it ends, what it _means_.”

“Then I’ll tell you, Buck,” you reassure, pressing a kiss against his temple, “Just tell me.”

His hand grips so tightly at your shirt you’re certain the material will tear at any moment.

You listen to Bucky swallow, preparing to let the words go free and sprinkle against your skin.

“End of the --” he pokes his tongue out and runs it over his lips, shaking his head. He tries again, knows he forgot something.

“Till the end of the…” he pauses, eyes searching, body stiffening, “End of the _what_ , Stevie? God, I can’t remember, I can’t--”

Tremors erupt from his body, and you gently shush them away, holding him tight against the frame of your body.

“Line, Buck.” you whisper sweetly, feeling pride surge at the fact he could still mostly remember something so important to you both. You don’t care that he forgot the end, that he couldn’t remember it all, those are mere details, things that pale in comparison against the grand scheme of things. He remembered the love that blossomed between you both, how _your_ breath exists in _his_ lungs and _his_ blood runs through _your_ veins, and that’s all you care about, all that matters.

You feel him nod against your neck, lips brushing against your racing pulse in gratitude.  
“Till the end of the line” he repeats properly, surprised with the way the words taste like honey against his tongue. It’s good, feels...natural, like he’s supposed to say it, was born to. “Why line?” he can’t help but question, wishing he knew the answer to that without having to ask.

You hum in response, seeking the warmth of his skin against your fingertips.

“Cause lines don’t end, Buck. They never do.”

 

* * *

 

vii.

 

You smell like blood

And your skin feels like leather

But your kisses taste like vanilla

And your lips are soft as butter cream,

Oh baby, let me call you honey

Because you’re rotting my teeth as we speak.

Please call me your punk

And please call me your friend,

It’s okay if you don’t remember late nights lazing away on fire escapes

Or the taste of your favorite cigarettes,

It’s okay if you don’t remember that we met on 6th street

When I was kissing pavement under Andrew McGovern’s foot,

I don’t care about any of that,

Just please don’t forget you used to call me –

 

“Hey doll, you still take your coffee black?”

Bucky stirs a teaspoon of sugar into his mug. You watch pale grains dissolve into the bitter inferno, steam rising to tickle at the soldier’s nose.

You stare dumbly at the man standing in the kitchen, your hand gripping and releasing at nothing – trying to catch the right words to say. Trying to respond. To offer some pathetic answer that hardly requires effort to vocalize.

But your body is passive, unresponsive. Your hand grips at the kitchen counter like it’s the only thing holding you up, keeping you from sinking 6 inches, from your blood thinning and your spine curving and your muscles atrophying until you’re nothing but skin and bones.

It's the only thing keeping you from returning to the old, sickly shadow of your youth.

When Bucky turns, he raises an eyebrow at you.

“What?”

Your lips fall open, but you can’t push out a sound, and you can feel the silence sink into the air between you, heavy and languid.

It takes a moment before he realizes, and when he does you watch his body freeze, eyes flickering in confusion before a rush of color erupts on his face.

“Oh. Oh _fuck_ ,” he gasps, a blush blossoming so far down his neck it kisses at his collarbones, and you want to pull his shirt down to see just how far the color travels, see how deep the shade goes.

“I didn’t, I dunno why I –“

“It’s okay, Buck,” you’re smiling through your eyes, skin glowing at the name, complacency filling your nerves. God, you want him to say it again, _need_ it, your nerves come alive to that single memory of home and your body yearns to be filled with all of the pet names Bucky once showered you in all those years ago. You didn’t even realize you were starving for it until you felt that sickly sweetness nestle onto your tongue, taunting you.

Your skin buzzes, energy bouncing across the walls, but you manage to swallow the hunger down, try not to listen to the way it burns through your chest.

“You can call me that whatever you want.”

He hesitates. You listen to the ceramic handle of his mug crackle under the weight of his fingers, losing against the pressure of steel.

He removes his hand from the mug and inspects the damage. He's avoiding eye contact.

“It’s not…weird?” he finally chokes.

“No,” you answer simply, eyes gentle, “You used to call me that a lot.”

Bucky nods, still trying to hide his embarrassment behind the locks of hair that curtain over his face.

“Yeah.” he whispers, and you want to ask him what memory made him remember this, what images flashed and graced kisses against his nerves to bring back such beautiful recollections of home.

But you don't. Maybe another time you will, but not today.

“Do you...want me to keep calling you that?” His voice is so strained and hesitant and gentle that at any moment you expect him to shrug the whole thing off, to end the sentence early and cut the conversation off before you can answer.

But he doesn't. Steel eyes meet your own and you just want to drown in him.

You already have.

“Only if you want,” you answer simply, satisfied with whatever he’ll give you, because he’s here and he’s breathing and that’s all you ever wanted, everything else is just icing. “Do you?”

You watch Bucky’s jaw tighten, brows furrow. He takes the question seriously, mulls it over before offering an answer. The gesture makes your heart feel too big for your body.

“Yeah. I do.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This piece took so much longer to write than anything else I've worked on, because since it's so different then what I'm used to it was constantly being edited and refined the more I started considering how exactly I wanted to present it. Adding the poetry and making sure it was properly integrated into the story was definitely a challenge! But in general, I'm happy with the outcome, and I hope you all enjoy as well! I would really appreciate it if you guys/gals left a kudos/comment on your way out!!
> 
> I would like to give a big thank you to my lovely Ty for being so encouraging while writing this! Feel free to [check out her work](http://archiveofourown.org/users/In_Factorem_Verba), she's a big sweetie and a lovely writer!
> 
> Find me on [tumblr!](http://badbrooklynbitch.tumblr.com) Thank you all so much for reading :')


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